


The Jaguar’s Path

by Aila_Darley, Saki_The_Cup_Bearer



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Adventure, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hatred, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mysticism, Rating: NC17, leario - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24175507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aila_Darley/pseuds/Aila_Darley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki_The_Cup_Bearer/pseuds/Saki_The_Cup_Bearer
Summary: Shameless AU for Season 2 Episode 8. Leonardo and Riario find themselves in the Jungle. However, it expands, rather than negates the canon.I hope the show creators and protagonists bear with me.Amen.
Relationships: Leonardo da Vinci/Girolamo Riario
Comments: 62
Kudos: 29





	1. Fall From Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Тропами ягуара](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8155577) by [Aila_Darley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aila_Darley/pseuds/Aila_Darley). 
  * A translation of [Тропами ягуара](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8155577) by [Aila_Darley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aila_Darley/pseuds/Aila_Darley). 



> 1\. This work was originally written in 2016. It then found a beta, and recently chanced upon a translator.  
> 2\. The author is unsure regarding some historical terms and details, and humbly invokes creative license.  
> 3\. The route that Riario and Leo take does not exist. 
> 
> The crazy bunch involved in this project:  
> Author (original Russian text) Aila Darley,  
> Russian beta Kuroi Takara.  
> (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuroi_Takara/pseuds/Kuroi_Takara)  
> Russian to English translation Saki The Cup Bearer  
> Fantastic English beta Adamwhatareyouevendoing (https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing)  
> with extra-helpful comments by Amockery (https://archiveofourown.org/users/amockery/pseuds/amockery).  
> Do not repost!

[Saki’s Cover illustration is here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102202)

Chapter 1: Fall From Heaven

“There was no book.” In silent farewell, da Vinci took one final lingering look at the olive-skinned, stunned face of the priestess. Then, with a decisive step forward, he jumped off into the abyss.

Powerful airstreams picked his body up and rushed it upwards, away from the jagged edge of the rocks. The dome of fabric distended above his head, vibrating with tension. The rough ropes ruthlessly bit into his skin. Had he not twisted them around his wrists, they would have been torn out of his hands, plunging him into the emerald green of the jungle below. His shoulders ached. Each breath was a struggle. It felt like the whips of the frigid airstream would flay his skin and strip the flesh off his bones. He was choking on the dry, icy air. Hot tears dried up before being shed, residue salt pulling at the burning skin. His body flopped around like a marionette without will in the hands of a mad puppeteer. Head emptied of all thought, only a desperate desire to survive remained, as they all tumbled into the tree tops rising through the mist below. 

Blinded with the shock of the impact, his body kept rapidly falling, catching on the branches and wide leaves of unfamiliar plants. Finally, he was flung onto the ground, flipped over a few times, slid off the mound, and stopped.

Darkness abated. Head ringing, every cell of his body aching, he struggled to catch his breath. Da Vinci sat up, looking around. He was resting on the ground in the middle of a virgin forest, surrounded by semi-darkness and stifling humidity. Leo moved his head gingerly and with an effort rose to his shaky legs. Spitting out soil and dry leaves, a strange, sudden sound caught his attention. 

“Zo!” he called out with an uncooperative voice. But only the noises of the jungle and the ringing in his ears came as a reply. “Nico! Where are you?!”

He took a few faltering steps and again caught something that sounded like a scream not far from where he stood. These were someone’s cries of pain, interspersed with lingering moans. Taking a moment to compose himself after the harrowing fall from the Vault of Heaven, he realised that the voice belonged to one of his companions. After a few dozen steps, da Vinci came upon Count Girolamo Riario, writhing among the roots of a tree. 

“Oh, fuck!” Leo rushed towards Riario. The man was clutching at his leg. The fabric of his breeches was torn and soaked in thick, dark blood. A fragment of bone jutted out amidst the pulsing mess. Riario was deathly pale, breathing heavily in shuddering rasps, teeth gritted, eyes rolling in his head.

Leo dropped the bag containing the bronze head they seized in the Vault from his shoulder; and gingerly assessed the flesh around the wound. Riario twitched fitfully at every careful touch of his fingers.

“The bone needs to be set.”

Girolamo only watched him with widened, crazed eyes and groaned quietly from the pain.

Leo turned and searched the ground around them.

“Here, bite on this.” He grabbed a piece of branch and tried to force it into the Count’s mouth. The man pressed his back into the massive root of a tree behind him, and looked at the proffered hand in terror.

“Come on!” Leo ordered. “Or you will lose the leg. Trust me, I’ve opened up enough dead bodies and broken dozens of bones. I can fix this.”

Riario nodded and closed his teeth around the branch. His breath whistled out of his throat, nails digging into the leaves and bark underneath him. Pain muddled his senses; unable to grasp what was going on, he acted mechanically and instinctively.

“Ready?” Da Vinci asked, settling his fingers around the protrusion. Riario nodded again, and at that moment, Leo sharply pushed the bone back into place. The sickening crunch aligned with the piercing scream of pain torn from the injured man’s throat. He jolted, throwing back his head, and toppled backwards heavily.

“Fuck,” Leo let out another quiet curse, carefully lowering the unconscious Girolamo onto the moss. Then he looked around once more. 

Standing up, he drew the sword of Cosimo de’ Medici, which dangled in a scabbard at his hip. He found a suitable tree and hacked off the branches with a few blows. Then he cut the Count’s air dome into thin strips. Riario was still out cold, but that was best. It was necessary to clean and bandage his wound. Da Vinci noted an outlandish wide-leaved plant, which had enough clean rainwater gathered inside its centre. Using the remaining cloth, he soaked it with rainwater and washed the injury, then whittled the branches into a splint to support Girolamo’s leg. The man was still unconscious, and Leo decided to leave him to rest. When he woke up, he would be plunged into an ocean of pain. Then, the maestro would be unable to offer him any relief. He had nothing on him to soothe the pain. 

Da Vinci let out a heavy sigh and finally took another, more thorough, look at the surrounding forest. He had to find his friends: Zoroaster and Nico. Da Vinci kept calling out their names, but there was no reply. The mysterious, unfamiliar, and hostile forest rose around him.

It was an incredible, fascinating sight. In front of him, giant trees rose like a massive wall, their tops reaching into the sky. The branches in the canopy were so tightly interwoven that Leo could barely distinguish the flashes of light far above his head, plunging everything into stifling green twilight. Leo went over to one of the tree trunks, stroking the greenish-brown smooth bark. He knocked in a few places, listening to the sound. “Unbelievable,” he whispered.

A truly monstrous tree with a wrinkly, gnarled trunk, flaking in long ribbons, was growing a few steps away. The rough strips of bark hung in low tresses, like the tangled hair of an old, greying witch. Leo touched one of the ribbons. It felt like a coarse rope. His attention scattered, eyes darting from the magnificent beautiful flowers, to the strange growth on the bark, to the enormous brightly coloured butterflies, fluttering among the greenery, then to a dazzling lizard that skidded between his feet. His gaze caught on the sharp-leafed palm trees with short, barrel-shaped hairy trunks, and on the outlandish plants, whose thick, fleshy leaves cracked and oozed white thick sap. Distracted by these marvels, Leo forgot himself, rushing between them, touching, smelling, prying with his nail and scrutinising. Sometimes, he would grab his battered notebook and feverishly scribble in it.

The air sang with thin, ringing voices from a choir of invisible insects, interspersed with ear-splitting cries of exotic colourful birds, and distant roars and rumblings of mysterious animals.

Somewhere in the distance, a shrieking group of monkeys darted across the tops of the canopy. Leo’s mouth fell open, and like a child, he followed them with an enthralled gaze. The monkeys settled high in the trees. Da Vinci couldn’t see them, but heard their squabbles and yelps.

Leaves and other debris littered down, and with a soft thud, a hairy, nut-shaped fruit landed a few paces away. Leonardo rushed towards it and picked it up, turning it in his fingers with frenzied curiosity. The fruit’s thick skin burst at the impact and cloudy liquid seeped onto his palm. He sniffed the new marvel. The scent was delightfully sweet and fresh. Instinct told him that the thing in his hands was something edible. Da Vinci licked at the liquid. The juice turned out to be sweet, and tasted heavenly. He had never tried anything like it before. Fixing his loot between the roots of a tree, he struck it with the sword, splitting it in half. The blow revealed the fruit’s firm snow-white flesh. Picking up the halves, he noted with regret that the milky juice spilled out, yet the flesh was just as good. A loud laugh escaped him. Gripping the other half of the sweet fruit, he rushed back to where he left his injured companion. 

Riario, meanwhile, had already regained his senses and watched da Vinci with wary apprehension. 

“Where have you been?” he asked hoarsely. Leonardo lowered himself next to the man, offering half of the procured fruit.

“Eat, you need your strength. I was looking around. Zo and Nico – have you heard them?”

Riario only shook his head.

“It appears they were carried away from us. I hope they are alive and will find us, or at least find their own way out.”

“Da Vinci…” Girolamo fixed him with a stare full of despair and pain. His face retained its pallor and was covered in a sheen of sweat. Eyes sunken, a faint, sad smile slipped across his lips. “We are lost. I… am a burden to you. Leave me. I will never reach the shore…”

“Be quiet,” Leonardo covered the Count’s lips with his palm. “Quiet… can you hear it?”

A distant, resounding roar carried from the depths of the forest, fading into a quiet murmur. They froze. Leonardo let his gaze slide from the thicket to Riario’s face. The man stilled, eyes wide in mute astonishment. His pupils were black as an abyss, and for the first time, da Vinci saw the depth of his emotional turmoil. The Count’s lips were soft and hot against the palm of his hand. He could feel, too, the roughness of his moustache and beard. The combination of it — vigilant-piercing stare, hot staccato breath, dry lips and prickly scratch — planted in his soul a sense of restless longing. Da Vinci forced himself to lower his hand, forgetting the looming danger.

“We need to find a better shelter,” he said quietly.

“What do you need me for?”

“There has been enough death, Count. I will not abandon you.”

Riario slowly lowered his eyes, thin fingers firmly grasping his half of the fruit.

“You need your strength. Eat!” Da Vinci patted the shoulder of his companion. “I will think of something.”

The night descended upon them abruptly, with hardly any intermission of dusk. It seemed as though it was light just a moment ago, and within a few minutes, they were shrouded in complete darkness.

Leonardo chopped some thin, dry branches, arranged a more comfortable sleeping place and started a small fire. The light from the fire barely illuminated a small patch around them, making the jungle appear even darker and more foreboding. Lowering himself onto a protruding root, da Vinci started to scribble quickly in his notebook with a pencil stub.

Warmed by the fire, Riario settled himself into the soft bedding of wide leaves, quietly studying the artist. The uneven flickering light carved out da Vinci’s focused features: sharpened cheekbones, shadows around the sunken tired eyes, sweaty matted hair.

For some time now, the existence of this man complicated the life of the gonfalonier of the Holy Roman Church. He endured continuous humiliation in their rivalry and suffered one defeat after another at da Vinci’s hands. Because of him, the only person who had ever loved him had to be killed. He lamented and mourned Zita’s death, for he needed her, however his conscience did not torment him. Her sacrifice was an inevitable cost for a chance to possess the Book of Leaves, for “every painful moment of our lives – is a part of God’s plan”. Yet, is the Book worth it? The Captain-general of the Holy Church, without a shadow of a doubt, would slit Da Vinci’s throat, if… Riario blinked away the sight that rose in his mind’s eye.

This new challenge, sent from above, proved only one thing – their fates were indeed inseparably linked.

“What are you writing?” Girolamo decided to break the silence. Da Vinci only lifted his finger in an impatient warning sign; keeping his eyes on the paper, he resumed drawing.

After a while he briskly shifted to the Count’s bedding. “Look.” The other man tried to sit up more comfortably but the pain forced a groan out of his throat. “Careful,” Leonardo murmured, helping him to sit up.

“And what is that?” Riario evened his breath. Then he spread the crinkled page on his knee and began to scrutinise the schematic drawing that looked like a map.

“You know, I can replicate anything I’ve ever seen. This was the map in possession of Ima and the chief. Here,” – he pointed his finger – “the Vault of Heaven. From there we got here” The finger slid across the paper to the side. “I have figured out the four directions. Taking into consideration the speed and direction of our descent, I have calculated that we must be somewhere around here.”

“Your theory is charming,” Riario smirked. “But what is the use of it? We did not find the Book. We cannot get out of here. We have no means of returning home.”

“You know, Riario, I always enjoyed your optimism,” Leo drawled sarcastically after a brief pause. “And it is this which precludes you from reaching your goals.” He jumped to his feet. “Show at least some understanding!”

A shadow of a smile slid across the Count’s face. He wordlessly watched da Vinci in front of him.

“Riario… with this map, I can calculate our location and I know which way we need to go!”

“You are not considering my injury, artista.”

“Yes, I do, for fuck’s sake! Look around!” Leonardo whirled on the spot, encompassing the jungle with a sweeping motion of his hand. “This is a wellspring of knowledge. To survive we only need to look around. The nature provides the clues.”

“Wonderful, my dreamer,” Girolamo said bitterly. “Can your nature give us a hint where to find a safer shelter, and how to mend my bone faster.” Forcefully, Riario tossed da Vinci’s notebook at him. Leo caught it and only spread his arms in a telling gesture.

“I will find us a shelter,” he promised firmly.


	2. Double Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo explores the Jungle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break.  
> Current worldwide situation was distracting. But next chapter will be up next week or so. So we are back on track.

** Chapter 2 ** **:**

**Double Trap**

Leo woke at first light. He only managed to doze off for a scant few hours, yet, despite the hunger and humid chill, felt refreshed.

The fire had burned out. The air shimmered faintly with residual heat over the pile of ashes. The jungle was shrouded in thick mist, strange nocturnal sounds morphing into the more familiar daytime ambience. A flock of yellow-green birds noisily darted through the canopy, reminding him of sparrows.

Da Vinci shifted on the bedding. After yesterday’s expedition, he and the Count, in mutual agreement, huddled back to back for sleep, seeking protection and warmth. The fabric of the air dome served as a blanket and shielded them from merciless bloodsucking pests. 

“Riario,” Leonardo called quietly, “are you asleep?”

“What?” the other conceded reluctantly, without moving.

“Listen, I am thinking of going into the jungle again. Yesterday, I think, I saw an opening between the trees. Didn’t get that far. It was getting late, I had to come back…”

The Count cut him off without changing position. “Da Vinci, I have no interest in your wanderings. Don’t waste your breath.”

Leo sat up, pushing the fabric off his body and internally calling for all the patience he had left. “If we want to get out of this alive, we cannot undermine each other. We have to act together.”

“God punished us, leaving us in the midst of a wild forest.” Girolamo opened his eyes and suddenly gave a curt laugh. “What a fool I’ve been, chasing the Book of Leaves to the other end of the world. I believed my sins would be absolved…” He turned his head to look at da Vinci. Riario’s eyes were dark and moist, face drawn in pained grimace. “My father was right – this is a path to ruin.”

He made a brisk motion to sit up, but the pain in his leg forced a groan out of him, as he toppled backwards, face greying. Girolamo closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and after restoring his breath, continued:

“No… this is not a punishment. This is a fitting reward. I will die a heretic, like a heathen. Alone, with no one to absolve my sins. My body will be torn apart by beasts, worms will devour the remains, and my bones will rot under sun and rain…”

“No.” Leonardo kneeled before him and gave Girolamo’s shoulders a firm shake. “No. Have you seen it?! Have you seen the bronze head! How? How can one create something like this without the Book? Without the knowledge it contains?”

“I never said that the Book of Leaves does not exist, da Vinci.” Girolamo opened his eyes and looked directly into the face hovering over him. “But is it worth it?”

Leo flinched away, his fingers loosening their grip, and glared at the count. “For me, it is.” After a short silence, Leo started to rise to his feet slowly. A few steps away, he said quietly: “For me, the journey is not over yet.”

Without glancing behind him, he hurried towards the thicket and soon disappeared into the lush vegetation. Riario, lifting himself on his elbows, watched him leave with a sad condescending smile. Then he reclined again, put his palms together, closed his eyes and began a whispered prayer.

The stubborn Roman cleric and his constant doubt infuriated Leonardo. After surviving the perilous journey and having the goal already in sight – to suddenly retreat! It did not take much to make the papal emissary to give up!

Taking hardly any heed of his surroundings, Leo hacked his way through the dense shrubbery. The bronze head with mother’s words was still in his possession. All he needed to do was restore the mechanism and learn the end of the message. Mother must have mentioned where she hid the Book. Leo swung his sword haphazardly, noting the satisfying juicy crunch of the grasses and snap of scattering twigs. It will get better, da Vinci will restore the count’s will to live. He needed a strong, coldblooded, and fearless ally in his quest for the Book. Riario might be a good strategist, learned and smart, but he had to agree with Zo. Relying on the Count or trusting him with his back would be a mistake. Gonfalonier left piles of bodies in his wake. So what? Da Vinci was not so different in this respect. After all, his killing machines were far more intimidating than the sword and dagger of the papal emissary.

And yet, there was another reason for Leo’s flaring anger, and he was not willing to admit it to himself – he sensed a fated unfathomable bond between them and wanted to learn the other side of Riario. Not the “Vatican’s sword”, not the politician wrought in intrigue and mystery. He wanted to know what really hid behind the wondering, almost gentle, smile that looked like refined suffering.

His thought remained unfinished, as his leg sunk into something soft and viscous up to the knee.

“Cazzo!” (1)

Leo lost his balance and plunged into the mire, obscured under a layer of soft grass. Horrified, he felt no ground under his feet, body sinking slowly into the mud. “Breath slowly, no sudden movements,” he reassured himself, letting out a strained breath. He plunged his sword into the grassy patch before him, trying to hold his body straight up like a bobber.

Da Vinci scanned his surroundings for a means of escape. No help was coming. Even if Riario could move, there was no chance he’d hear DaVinci’s voice. _If you’d gone together, he could’ve pulled you out,_ a devilish inner voice was whispering in his ear. “Why would you think so? Even wounded Riario remains dangerous!” Leonardo protested aloud. _While you are stranded in this jungle, he needs you. He will die without you_ , the whisper replied, and then quietened. Leonardo was compelled to agree. If he did not get out now, he would perish and condemn Riario to death as well. The Count’s words about his discarded corpse, worms and beasts devouring the flesh, surfaced in his memory.

Leonardo squeezed his eyes shut, shaking off the illusion. His gaze caught on a sturdy branch, hanging above him. If he could reach it with the handle of the sword, and pull it towards him, he could hold onto it and drag himself out of the bog…

A pair of yellow eyes fixed Leonardo with an unblinking stare through the tangle of branches. Heart stuttering, he froze in terror. Da Vinci swallowed audibly and grasped the hilt of the sword, lifting it, preparing to defend himself. He recognised the animal, watching him. The altar hall, where he joined with the priestess and journeyed to another world, was carpeted in pelts of these big cats. 

For a few long seconds, man and beast studied each other.

“I won’t harm you, if you do not harm me,” Leonardo whispered. His heart was fluttering, like a frightened bird in a trap, his whole body covered in cold sweat. _Now you have a choice_ , the nasty voice within stirred once more to life. _Your death may be swift or slow. This beast will jump and break your neck, if you do not resist. A quick death… or you can continue to drown._

“Shut up, you demonic spawn!” Leonardo cursed the adversary inside his head. Meanwhile, the animal moved forward with light steps, towards the branch that could have saved him. The bright spotted fur almost blended with the foliage.

“No… please. Leave!” Da Vinci lifted the tip of the blade even higher. The animal emerged from the canopy, and with a graceful jump landed soundlessly onto the branch over Leonardo’s head.

“Indeed, one may start thinking of God,” the maestro whispered desperately. He was sucked in up to his thighs now, fearing that any movement would either hasten the sinking or provoke the large cat over his head. The branch was lowering under the weight of its body, and it would only take da Vinci a small effort to lunge himself upwards and grab onto it. The spotted predator, it appeared, was not interested in attacking. It may have been the artist’s overstimulated and vivid imagination, or the wild hunter already had its fill elsewhere, but to Leonardo, the cat’s behaviour looked like simple feline curiosity or… it wanted to help.

Wide soft paws made another small step, and the body pressed flush with the bark. Da Vinci heard the animal breathing. Yellow eyes with vertical narrow pupils were scrutinising unblinkingly the man below, black tip of the tail twitching. But the predator’s pose did not appear tense or menacing. Da Vinci exhaled nervously. He made a decision.

“Good beast. Stay, just like that. Sit.” Da Vinci steadied himself, coiled his muscles and launched himself upwards, grabbing the branch with his free hand. Startled, the animal gave a loud bark, jolted to the ground, and disappeared into the thicket. The branch bounced back, and Leonardo was set free. He flung the sword onto the spot where the predator landed, pulled himself up and out with his hands, and after a moment, finally stood on the firm ground.

His legs gave out beneath him and he collapsed onto the ground, heart hammering with fear and relief. He could not believe he was safe. Leo turned onto his back, studying the interlacing of branches and foliage above himself. A patch of yellow fur was caught on the end of one twig.

“That was some luck,” he said aloud.

“The gods were favourable. The spirit of the forest spared you, my dreamer,” Ima’s voice echoed in his head.

Having caught his breath and calmed down, da Vinci sat up and looked around. He had substantially strayed away from the path he made for himself yesterday. Leonardo stood up. Mud was squelching in his boots, dirty wet pants stuck to his legs, and a few fat leeches clung to him in several places. Sending a silent curse to the papal nephew, whom he blamed for landing him in this double trap, Leo tore the swamp bloodsuckers off, picked up his sword, and ventured through the dense vegetation again. He needed to find yesterday’s path, which appeared to lead to a clearing between the trees.

\--------  
1) Italian curse, something along the lines of “Fuck”


	3. Dead Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gift of Kai Pacha

The air vibrated with stifling, humid heat. Girolamo was sweating profusely, itching with insect bites and grime that irritated his body. He grew restless, reduced to lying motionless, ears trained anxiously on the noises issuing from the forest. He did not know what to expect: death, attack of the Incas or wild animals, the unexpected return of da Vinci’s companions or the disappearance of the artist himself. What he would not give to find himself in the marble baths of the papal palace, with a bottle of strong wine and a hefty piece of well-cooked meat. He despised himself for his helplessness, and da Vinci for leaving him without any means to defend himself. Nico kept the Incan dagger, and Riario had no other weapons. Anything with a sharp enough blade would do — something to protect himself with, or something to cut open his veins. These sinful thoughts occurred to him more and more often. If God had abandoned him, he saw no reason to live. To add to his discomfort, he was horribly thirsty. The half of that sweet fruit was by now just a memory.

The Count opened his eyes, looking up at the crown of the giant tree under which he lay for the hundredth time. The view was nauseatingly familiar by now. He shifted his hand, sitting up gingerly and settling his injured leg between the roots. Da Vinci’s makeshift splint was cumbersome and uncomfortable, but it kept the bone in secure immobility. Grasping at the protruding roots, Riario tried to lift himself up. He had no plan in mind. He would not have been able to make even a dozen steps, not to mention the fact there was nowhere to go. He had not paid too much attention to da Vinci’s map, and had no idea where they were right now. Girolamo simply wanted to stand up, even only to change the angle from which he was looking at his surroundings. And to relieve himself somewhere else than right next to his bedding.

Each awkward movement reverberated through his leg with a stab of dull ache. His breath faltered, heart throbbing painfully. Still, the stubborn Count would not give up, and after several unsuccessful attempts, managed to stand on one foot. Dizziness and nausea hit him, black dots swarming his vision. Girolamo stilled, getting a grip of himself, and attempted a tiny step. He had barely put any weight onto the broken leg before being pierced with pain far worse than before. He almost fainted, remaining upright only by sheer willpower. Girolamo knew one thing for certain: there was no way for him to move without help. They were going to be stuck in the jungle for a long time. Without food, water, or help.

“My Lord, I know you are punishing me with this torment for my doubt—” Riario struggled for breath, “— yet I beg for your mercy — send me death.”

Girolamo closed his eyes tightly, rocking from side to side. He yearned for deliverance and at the same time wanted desperately to live.

Releasing a loud tirade of curses aimed at da Vinci, which even a Neapolitan dock worker would envy, Riario struck the trunk of a tree with his fist. All he could do was jump on one foot towards a plant with wide leaves and scoop out a fill of rainwater with his cupped hands. Then catch his breath and take a piss.

Sweat burned his eyes, shirt sticking to his back, the fabric of his pants dried and turned to a stiff, abrasive shell. His boots were rubbing his toes raw. Da Vinci hacked a path through the thicket with persistence of a possessed man, paying no attention to the ravenous gnats and flies swarming above him. Branches and leaves became his nemesis, blocking his way towards his goal, and Leo slashed at them as if they were the heads of Turkish foes. Eventually, he recognised the trees and barely noticeable trail of cut branches from yesterday. He stopped to catch his breath and wipe the sweat off his face.

Leonardo was not sure how much time he wasted by straying off his path and falling into the trap. Hardly any sunshine penetrated the thick foliage. He was thirsty, and the sharp spasms of hunger tormented his empty stomach. He had to hurry and reach the opening, find something edible, and manage to return before dark to Riario. Leo refused to think that the animal he met so recently may come upon the defenceless and helpless Count. Cosimo’s sword, which was already dulled from chopping the hard, moist tree bark, was their only weapon.

Leo swallowed fitfully, trying to push down the sour surge of bile, rising within him. He should have at least left the Count a stick, sharpened into a spear, to give him a chance of defending himself. Leonardo grasped the hilt of his sword with a sweaty palm and continued on his track. 

He lifted his blade for another stroke and stopped. White semicircles of human ribs loomed a dozen steps away from him. 

Leo glanced around, scanning for any signs that would verify his anxious thoughts. The jungle continued to buzz, chirp and sing with the voices of its invisible dwellers. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to Leonardo. He made a tentative step forward, parting the branches. 

The remains belonged to someone who died a while ago. There was no flesh left, only white, dried bones and half-rotten rags — the remnants of clothes. Some parts were missing: a segment of the spine, both legs. Cracked ulnas were all that remained of the arms, lying separately. A twisted shoulder blade and half of the pelvic bone were sticking up. Leo squatted next to the skeleton, the skull had the matted clumps of black tangled hair still attached to it. He nudged it the tip of his blade in order to see the “face”. The lower jaw was cracked and hung low. The skull was snarling at him with two rows of undamaged teeth. A fat millipede nimbly slid out of an eye socket and vanished in the grass.

Leonardo, driven by curiosity, carefully examined parts of the skeleton, trying to reconstruct the unfortunate man’s demise. Everything suggested that the remains strewn before him belonged to a young man. Maybe it was a kaumiva (1), or an escaped _piña (2)_ _,_ or a hunter. Leo found decayed bracelets in the detritus, round amulet-stones, and a scattered headdress. The man’s neck vertebrae were unnaturally dislocated. Leo concluded that the man died because someone simply twisted his neck. It did not look like the work of a human.

In his mind’s eye he saw the spotted head with the yellow gaze. He felt a chill run down his spine. Leo instinctively grasped the hilt of his sword and turned around again. It could well be that creature who jumped the unfortunate man from above. He raised his hand, flexed his fingers, imagining the jaws of the predator, and sized up the damage to the vertebrae. All evidence pointed to the man having been attacked from above and behind. It could have been a man-eating beast, just like the ones in the tall stories told by explorers returning from faraway lands.

Leo was about to continue on his way when something caught his attention amidst the rotting debris. Stepping towards it, he poked the pile of leaves with his blade. They shifted, and Leonardo saw an Incan bone-knife. It probably slid from the man’s hand as he fell from the powerful attack. Leo picked up his find carefully. The knife was intact and sharp, the handle resting securely in his palm. He wiped it with the hem of his shirt and tucked it in his belt.

“This is the gift of Kai Pacha (3). Spirits are protecting you,” the priestess’s voice echoed.

“Let me be! Get out of my head!” da Vinci hissed through his teeth, and, wordlessly thanking the dead man for the priceless gift, returned to his path.

———————————————  
1) a spy  
2) a member of the lowest cast, almost a slave  
3) Middle World (Earth)


	4. Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You prayed well, Riario. God heard your prayers. Now we have food and shelter.”

**Shelter**

Eventually, an opening flashed between the branches and vines. With a few more slashes at the final obstacles, Leonardo stepped out onto the edge of a cornfield. His heart faltered. The crops could only mean one thing — natives were nearby, and meeting them did not bode well for the fugitives.

Leo immediately stepped back, retreating beneath the broad leaves to observe and listen. All he heard, however, were the sounds of the forest — he wasn’t picking up any guttural Incan speech, nor the dull clang of rakes picking at the soil. Besides, the crops looked strange. Tall stems of corn were strangled among other plants. Upon closer inspection, Leonardo noticed that the ground was littered with rotten corn cobs, something that a peasant, dependant on his crop, would never allow to happen. The field was abandoned, it dawned on him. And judging by the overgrown weeds, it happened a while ago. That would likely make the dead man in the bushes not a hunter or a spy, but one of the peasants.

Da Vinci stepped onto a barely visible path along the edge of the field and took another cautious look around. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he sped up his steps.

At any slightly suspicious sound or movement, Leonardo froze, clasping the hilt of his sword. He startled a flock of colourful birds that flew out of the thicket, screeching noisily. Leo darted into the safety of the dense shrubbery. Alarmed birds could attract the attention of peasants, and Leo could not yet dismiss the possibility that they were nearby. Trying to still the pounding of his heart, Leo lurked in his hideaway, watching. After a while, he was certain that there were no people in the fields.

Venturing out of the trees, he continued to follow the trail. At the edge of the field, the path smoothly blended into forest, so Leo turned and plunged ahead. He noticed a peasant hut nearby and paused among the wide-leaved stalks of overgrown corn, peering ahead. There was no movement in or around the house. Leo waited carefully for a long moment, then, finally reassured, he approached the dwelling.

The house looked as abandoned as the field. Jungle swallowed it, smothering with vines to conceal it under vast varnished leaves. The plants intertwined with ichu grass, once used to cover the roof. Walls of cobblestone were darkened from the rains yet did not crumble. Leo cautiously circled the hut, carving a path for himself among the creeping stems. There was no door. Instead, the entrance was covered with a piece of moth-bitten fabric. Leonardo moved the curtain away with his sword and, ducking low, entered.

The hut’s interior was musty and dark. There were no windows. It was clearly abandoned. Almost all the furnishing was broken and covered in a layer of thick dust, dry leaves, and dirt. Grass sprouted on the floor. Yet it did not look like it was ransacked. Some of the everyday items and crockery remained untouched. When his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, Leo noticed something like a cot, covered with rotten llama pelt and thick rugs. Clay cups, plates, and pots, empty but unbroken, were strewn across the earthen floor. 

Leonardo peeked into the smaller adjoining chamber. It may have served as a kitchen, with a hearth of piled stones on the floor. Da Vinci promptly searched the pots, baskets and cups which remained intact. In the baskets he found a stock of stale corn kernels. One pot contained an eyewatering putrid sludge that looked like over-fermented aqha (1), another — white chuño (2) powder. Some dried slices of llama meat — ch'arki — and bananas hung from the ceiling, by some miracle remaining undamaged, even though now turned into tangled twines. Other cups and pots were filled with spices or herbs, small grains of quinoa, dried molluscs, and gnarled brown peppers.

“You prayed well, Riario. God heard your prayers. Now we have food and shelter,” da Vinci uttered aloud, exiting the house. He needed to return quickly for the Count and transport him here somehow.

Leo walked as fast as fatigue and his blistering feet allowed. His return journey felt to take about three quarters of an hour. If Riario was able to move by himself, by night they could reach the abandoned hut. If they did not hurry, the darkness would conceal the faint path, increasing their chances of getting lost. Da Vinci did not fancy spending another night among the roots, covered only by a piece of fabric, shivering from cold and fighting off the mosquitoes. The dry mud in his trousers was rubbing his skin raw, and Leonardo chased away the thought of what was happening inside his boots. The soles of his feet felt flayed, and burned as though held into flames. To make matters worse, hunger and thirst were overpowering him, leaving him dizzy and his stomach spasming. The abandoned house seemed like a blessing and the culmination of the tired maestro’s desires. 

Riario lay in the same place, posed like the deceased: motionless, eyes closed, palms folded across his chest. Leonardo rushed towards him. The moment he anxiously bowed down, the Count’s hands shot up, closing around his neck, strangling him. Da Vinci choked. Darkness filled his vision, heartbeat tolling in his temples, deafening him. 

“Let go…” he managed to squeeze out, trying to pry the steely grasp off. There was no awareness behind Riario’s eyes, no recognition. “Let go… are… you mad? It’s me, Leo…” da Vinci wheezed.

The fingers clenched harder, but Leo could not stoop to sinking a knee into Girolamo’s groin, or press fingers into his eyes, or grab him by the throat. The man was obviously not in his right mind. Sweat-drenched hair stuck to his face, white as chalk. Veins were bulging on his forehead, his eyes glazed. The Count was snarling like a beast and would not release his grip. Leonardo’s heart thundered in his chest from the lack of air, his lungs in agony. He struggled frantically, thrashing and tugging at his wrists to release the hands from his throat. _What a pity_ — the mocking voice inside his head stirred unexpectedly — _to_ _get out of the bog, escape the jaguar’s teeth, and find a shelter, only to be throttled by your own mad compatriot_. “Shut up!” da Vinci curbed his own thoughts, and gathering the rest of his strength, yanked the Count’s hands, prying them from his neck. Without thinking, he slapped the other man’s face hard. Riario’s head jerked and he started to breath heavily. 

“Are you mad?! What’s gotten into you?!” Leonardo yelled, gasping for breath. He scrambled furiously to his feet.

“Artista—” Riario focussed his blurry eyes on da Vinci’s figure, an unpleasant smile snaking across his face. “Unsuccessful day? I thought you had abandoned me.”

“I got lost, fell into a swamp, and I almost got attacked by a jaguar…” Leo bristled, rubbing his aching throat. “But I found a shelter for us. If we do not hurry, we’ll have to spend the night out here again.”

Girolamo’s lips twitched. He was still wheezing and breathing heavily. Leonardo sat down next to him, raising his hand in warning.

“No more games, Riario. What is wrong with you?”

He placed his palm gently onto his companion’s clammy forehead. The Count was running a fever, his body shaking with chills.

“Merda!(3)” da Vinci exclaimed in despair. “You are burning up. You managed to get sick!”

Riario only smirked again and closed his eyes. “Artista, leave. Let me die, or better yet, kill me yourself.”

“Vaffanculo! (4) We will get out of here!” Leo said fiercely.

Without opening his eyes, Riario laughed soundlessly with only his lips.

“Come on, God’s man, get a grip, and get up. We cannot stay here any longer, or you will meet your maker.”

“I wish,” whispered Girolamo. Leo grunted indignantly and grasped the man’s shoulders, forcing him to sit up. “Come on, get up,” he coaxed the Count. 

With da Vinci’s help, he somehow managed to stand, holding his damaged leg gingerly. Girolamo swayed heavily from side to side, meaning Leo had to hug him close to himself. His body was strong and hot. His eyes stared directly at him, glistening moistly with fever. Dry lips parted…

Leo’s heartbeat escalated to a muffled drumroll. He pushed out an erratic breath, suppressing the overwhelming desire to taste Girolamo’s lips.

“Da Vinci,” Riario mumbled, “I know you are a sodomite, so stay away from me.”

“That was a shameless lie, gonfalonier. I was acquitted, and you know it,” da Vinci gritted the words out through his teeth, suddenly angry with himself. Was his intention so obvious?

Riario snorted loudly and dismissively. He looked as though he wanted to add something, but swayed so hard that he had to sling his arm around his companion’s neck to remain upright.

“Whether you like it or not,” da Vinci uttered, body stiffening with tension, “I will have to hold you and drag you with me. Watch your leg, Count,” he warned. Holding onto Riario, he managed to pick up the bag that contained the bronze head. Shifting closer, and settling the hand holding Leo’s neck more comfortably, they slowly moved out towards the path.

After a couple of hundred steps, Riario started to falter. He leaned heavily on da Vinci’s shoulders, panting loudly and hoarsely. His body burned with dry fever. Girolamo was drifting in and out of consciousness, and Leo had to grab onto him to keep him upright. Drenched in sweat, he slung Riario onto his back like a sack, and, gathering the last of his strength, he continued to walk.

Only a few more steps and they would reach the safety of the hut. Fading twilight began to blur the jungle, turning it into inky inscrutable wall. With the last of his strength, da Vinci trudged on, overcoming the unbearable pain in his blistering feet. He swayed from side to side, breathless, gritting his teeth as he stubbornly moved forward. Pushing past the limit of his endurance, smothered under the weight of Riario’s body, he managed to crawl his way in the darkness into the house. Dropping the Count onto the pelt, with a wail Leo tore off his boots, completely sodden with blood, mud, and sweat, and collapsed at Girolamo’s side.

\------------------  
1) Quechua: corn and agave juice beer.  
2) Quechua: Dried potatoes milled into a kind of flour.   
3) Italian: shit  
4) Italian: fuck off


	5. Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Count's fever is not a joking matter...

Survivor

Leo awoke to a monotonous rustling sound. Something was thrumming steadily, snapping, and pattering beyond the walls. A soft repetitive drumbeat reverberated in his head, merging with the remnants of a muddled dream. Leo cracked open one eye, trying to figure out what was going on and where he was. His hand reached for the sword at his side. Murky light filtered thought the holes in the fabric that covered the doorless entrance. The air was filled with the sharp scent of moist earth and grass.

Rain. Leonardo craned his neck, confirming his guess. He glanced back at Girolamo, curled into a foetal position, sleeping beside him. The man’s breath was laboured and raspy. His forehead felt like heated metal to the touch. The move to the shelter was indeed timely, da Vinci thought, sitting up gingerly. 

Every muscle in his body ached as though he had unloaded a cargo ship alone yesterday. His stomach was so empty it felt close to digesting itself. He was parched, lips scabbed, grating at each other. Leonardo lowered his eyes and shuddered at the sight of his feet. His stockings had disintegrated. Blood and ichor saturated the remaining fabric, dried onto the shredded skin of his ravaged soles. He tried to flex his toes. Every movement echoed with pain.

Leo grimaced. The wounds needed immediate cleaning and bandaging. At least he could use the tannin powder he found when inspecting the pots and cups the day before. Then he ought to get the hut serving as their home into some semblance of order. He needed to fetch water, to wash their clothes that were stiffened with sweat and dirt, and to clean their boots. There was a lot of work to be done…

Overcoming his crushing fatigue, da Vinci struggled to his feet. With great effort, he limped over the dry grass and bare earth of the floor towards the room serving as a kitchen. The hearth was filled with dry leaves and twigs, enough to heat water in a large pot. Then it would be necessary to deal with Girolamo’s leg and fever. He could boil some quinoa with dry llama meat — feeding the man was a priority. But he also needed to eat something himself in order to keep the remains of his strength. Leo tore off a tangled rope of dried bananas and stuffed one in his mouth. The day was going to be long and full of chores. 

He waded through blood-red fog, unseeing, unable to feel his body and failing to grasp who and where he was.

Sometimes feral, insane laughter tore from his throat, sometimes his heart sank from excruciating sorrow, eyes blinded by tears.

He was suffocating. The air was dense and hot, impossible to breathe in. Visceral panic overwhelmed him. He was afraid to die, afraid to be buried alive or burn in Hell’s fire that seared him from within. He strained his disobedient voice to call out for help but did not know — to whom. 

Sometimes faces would emerge through the billowing haze, both familiar and unknown: they stared silently at him, or spoke, moving their lips unintelligibly. He frantically struggled to grasp what they were whispering but could not discern the words. He pursued these ghosts in the hope of hearing answers to his tormenting questions, but instead he would sink into the stifling emptiness, greeted only by distorted figures, the spawn of Satan laughing in his face. 

“Artista… kill me… give me a sword, I will do it myself… artista… damned artista.” Feverish delirium rasped between his pale dry lips, drowning in the swirling intoxicating haze.

Leonardo filled his lungs with acrid smoke and carefully exhaled it into the face of the thrashing Count.

“Breathe it in. There you go… You will feel better now,” Leo smoothed down sweaty, matted hair with his palm, stroked the hollow cheek overgrown with scratchy black stubble. “There… now sleep. I chased your demons away. Now they will all come for me.”

It felt strange to unreservedly touch a man who, being healthy, would never allow it. To feel his skin, and hot breath, watch how his long eyelashes quivered. He wanted more. To overstep the proprieties that were beaten into Riario during his monastic upbringing.

But maybe… Maybe, these things will change.

Da Vinci took another deep drag from the pipe, fashioned from a bamboo stem. His eyes were hazy. The fire in the hearth streamed, shimmering with unnaturally bright light. The walls of the hut spun around him, lurching in different directions. Drawings he had scratched into the soot came to life and began to move.

“Damn jungle… damn Book… damn coca leaves…” he muttered, his stiffened tongue refusing to cooperate.

Riario stopped thrashing on the bed, his gibberish ceasing. Leo stretched out next to him, holding his warm sweaty body close. “You stink like a dog… you are beautiful… damn church man… when we get back home, I would love to draw you… Ah, Turk, you are here again,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and plunging into the rising visions.

The sound of prayer filled his head like an echo under the vaults of a cathedral.

The fire flowed through his veins and it hurt to breathe.

There was no escape from the pervading, punishing voice.

He will be diligent in repeating his prayers. It will make a difference. He will try his best. He will be obedient. He will deserve love.

“…Infra tua vulnera absconde me.

Ne permittas me separari a te.

Ab hoste maligno defende me

In hora mortis meae voca me.

Et iube me venire ad te...” (1)

The prayer was uttered in a feverish whisper, hot fingers painfully grasping his wrist. Leo carefully extricated his hand, changing the damp cloth on the sick man’s forehead.

“You will be fine,” he bowed down, meeting the Count’s wide eyes.

“Who are you?” Riario stared through him to the side, blindly, unrecognising.

“It’s me, Leo… Girolamo, you are delirious. Drink up. It will help.”

He lifted his patient’s heavy, limp head and gently started to pour the herbal brew between parted lips. His teeth clamped hard into the clay rim of the cup, and Leo, leaning down to his ear, whispered soothingly.

“Shhh… Girolamo, let go. It will pass. The pain will pass. The fever will release you. You will get better…”

A soft voice lulling him to sleep. A hand gently stroking his hair.

All becomes quiet and calm. The fire inside him abates. Riario closes his unseeing eyes, and drifts along the river of oblivion.

The other man shifted. Leo, feeling the movement, opened his eyes at once. Morning light streamed through the doorway. The jungle was waking, filled with wild shrieks, chirping and ringing.

He had finally managed to doze off at his patient’s side, is hands still clutching the cup with the Count’s water and medicinal brew.

The night was especially hard and sleepless. Riario was feverish, convulsing as if all the demons in Hell were raking him over hot coals. Sometimes Leonardo had to hold him down by the shoulders to prevent him jolting off the cot entirely. The Count seemed fixed on struggling; attempting to run away, reaching for the sword to fight with someone. He began mumbling prayers, then dirty curses, then unimaginable delirium. Had da Vinci believed in God, he would be praying fervently. But he believed only in his own skills, and in the strength and resilience of the Captain-general of the Holy Roman Church.

Yet, sometimes da Vinci was overcome by fear and doubt, spiralling down into despair. His companion seemed so exhausted, ready to exhale his last breath and still forever. Then he would be unable to help; would be powerless to save the man from death. Not just a man, but one who has become vital to him.

In the Oriental treatises on medicine, he read that there is sometimes a watershed in sickness, a moment when the barrier between life and death is at its faintest and most fragile. And were the sick man to survive that night, he would start to recover.

But what a long night it was!

Leo fought desperately for Riario’s life. Every hour he would pour a warm brew of herbs and roots between Girolamo’s lips. Water every ten minutes. He counted the time on a homemade clock, a primitive mechanism built from pliant stalks wound with carved wooden cogs. A small stone hung as a counterweight. The clock was not precise and did not show what time it was, just measured the intervals, with only the sound of the stone falling into a copper bowl on the floor to inform him of the passage of time.

He knew that the broth would be beneficial for Riario, but its effects were not quick. That was its drawback and made for fearful hours. Leonardo regularly checked the heartbeat and breathing, pressing his ear to the sweat-slick chest that rose and fell rapidly. He wiped his body down with a wet cloth and whispered words of hope and comfort into the man’s ear. He knew the Count could not hear him, but he desperately needed these words himself.

Girolamo’s heavy eyelids slowly parted, he scanned the space and sighed. He was pale. The sickness had whittled down his features making them even sharper, cheeks hollow and dark shadows circling his eyes. 

“How are you?” Leonardo asked him quietly, stretching out his stiff body.

“Where are we?” Riario responded, giving their shelter a pointed once over.

“Incan hut. I found several more nearby, all empty and abandoned. The people are gone — either they were killed or taken into slavery.”

“How long have I been like this?” Girolamo shifted, making a weak attempt to sit up and failing.

“According to my calculations, today is the tenth day. But I may be wrong.”

“Don’t look at me,” Riario snapped, suddenly feeling exposed. Only his broken leg was securely bundled with clean fabric and encased in a stiff corset constructed from interwoven strips of tree bark. Girolamo turned away, unable to bear it. He clenched his fist around the covers, tugging them over himself.

“Why?” Leonardo was genuinely surprised. “What are you ashamed of?” he smiled, condescending yet kind. To his surprise, two vivid spots rose on the Count’s cheeks. “You do realise you are built like an Olympic athlete? Your body is beautiful. And I am an artist. It is an aesthetic pleasure to look at you.”

 _Even though the sensual pleasure your body could grant me is even greater_ , da Vinci thought to himself. _If only you would allow it to happen, Count… I would do anything to please you_. He remained silent but continued to observe Riario.

“I am naked. I have no means to defend myself… Why did you undress me, da Vinci?” Riario’s voice cracked.

“I had to. You were very sick. You caught some fever. It is humid and hot in here. In your dirty clothes you would have rotted alive. I wiped your body with water and herbal brew to bring the fever down. Now your skin is breathing, you are better, and you can heal.”

“You…” Riario swallowed fitfully and bit his lip. It was clear that something weighed on his mind, something he was reluctant to ask. “Da Vinci… what else did you do to me?”

Leo frowned and shook his head in reproach. In another situation, with anyone else, he would have already raised a laugh or hit them with a fist to the jaw. But not with Girolamo.

“Nothing, Riario, that would offend you or violate your dignity. I am no rogue,” he enunciated slowly.

Riario swallowed again, pushing down his anxiety, and avoided meeting the artist’s eyes. He was overwhelmed, for the first time feeling humiliated and dependant. And to give such power over oneself to da Vinci, who filled him with conflicting emotions.

“I would be grateful for any kind of clothes,” he finally conceded.

“Of course,” Leo responded readily, eager to put an end to the conversation unsettling Girolamo. “Wear this. It is an Incan loin cloth.”

Da Vinci rose to his feet and brought over a piece of fabric.

“Can’t we dress in a less savage manner?” Girolamo finally managed to lift his hollow eyes. Da Vinci was wearing the same garment wrapped around his hips. He must have found them while pillaging the abandoned dwellings.

“Until you fully recover, and we can resume our journey, it is better to wear this. The Incas are no fools. Trust me, it is comfortable.”

Leonardo offered the cloth to Girolamo. Riario hesitantly took the fabric, the sight of which triggered a painful memory in his head.

He recalled that horrible bloody night, when he was wearing only a ritual loin cloth and his body was painted. Where he was both the prey and the predator. Either he was killed, or he had to kill everyone to secure the antidote for the poisoned da Vinci.

He took Zita’s life clothed like this…

Riario blinked and hissed out a sigh.

“I do not want you to see me naked ever again,” he muttered.

“As you wish, gonfalonier.” Leo theatrically lifted his eyes to the heavens and turned away. “There is nothing shameful in a beautiful naked body,” he finished without looking back. After a pause, he added: “But we still have to sleep together. As you might have noticed, we only have one cot.”

Riario refrained from answering. With clumsy hands he managed to secure the fabric around his hips and hid himself under the covers.

With da Vinci’s unrelenting, careful ministrations, the sickness abated. Girolamo felt better with each passing day, though remained very weak. He slept a lot, hardly noticing the time of day. He stopped paying heed to their mutual half-nakedness or sleeping back to back at night. Sometimes he felt da Vinci cling to him in his sleep, but did nothing to free himself from the embrace. It felt warm and pleasant — familiar. In such moments, Riario would lay still, acknowledging the strange and forbidden intimate proximity of the other man, listening to the response of his own body.

“You look like a savage.”

Leo’s familiar half-naked figure, with shaggy beard and tangled mess of hair, settled cross-legged at the entrance of the hut. Liquid gold of the sunlight reflected off his tanned shoulders. Against the backdrop of the jungle, the maestro looked like a native of some mysterious land. His lean body was browned, long hair gathered with a leather cord into a ridiculous ponytail at the base of his skull. His whiskers and beard stood on end like lush shrubbery. In front of him, on a piece of fabric spread on the ground, were gears and bolts of a mechanism. He was keenly poking his knife inside the half dismantled bronze head.

“Huh?” da Vinci turned to him, squinting into the twilight of their dwelling.

“If I recall correctly, the mechanism was only slightly damaged. Your destructive talents are impressive, truly,” Riario smirked from his cot.

“I didn’t damage anything,” Leo muttered, returning his attention to the cog. “I had to dismantle it to fix it. But without the tools…” Leo flung the cog onto the fabric in exasperation. “Ffff…” he halted a curse on the tip of his tongue. “When we return, I will fix it!” he declared with conviction.

“Maybe,” Girolamo settled himself more comfortably, resting his elbow under his head: “— or perhaps it is wiser to leave this perilous path and return to your art.”

“You speak like my maestro,” Leo huffed, restoring the cog into place inside the head.

“If we ever get home, if God grants us this mercy,” despair reverberated in Girolamo’s voice. “Then you should go back to your teacher, da Vinci. And I shall return to mine.”

“What?!” Leo froze for a moment. “You plan to return to Rome?”

“Without the church, I am nothing,” Girolamo stared at the artist. “I shall surrender myself to the papal mercy.”

Leo felt his heart shrink painfully. He stopped assembling the device, stood up and stepped into the house. He lowered himself onto the blanket next to the Count.

“You do realise that Sixtus may not show you any mercy,” he said quietly.

Girolamo turned away from him, glancing pensively aside.

“Perhaps for worshipping the false Gods, this is exactly what I deserve,” Girolamo gazed into da Vinci’s eyes again.

Leonardo shook his head. His eyes flared in anger. He wanted to grab Girolamo’s shoulders and shake him hard, to put an end to the man’s unbearable self-abasement.

“Riario, Sixtus forged you into a blind weapon, forced you to kill. Your sacrifice will only secure his power over you! But that is not the real you! You despise murder!”

“What do you think you know about me, artista?” His lips stretched in a bitter smirk. “Sometimes I have killed and felt nothing. As a man experiences nothing when swatting a biting insect. I only felt relief at fulfilling my duty.”

“That is not true!” Leonardo exclaimed. “You are just afraid to believe that you are different! You are afraid to disappoint Sixtus. You are afraid, Girolamo. Afraid of yourself.”

He stood up sharply. Riario swallowed, his eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness of the hut, following Leonardo closely. 

“Is there nothing that you fear, artista? Have you never disappointed anyone?”

“I am surely not afraid to disappoint Sixtus,” da Vinci evaded a direct answer. “And apart from that, I have already disappointed everyone I could disappoint. Just by being born,” he added quietly.

Da Vinci stepped outside again, silently gathered the parts of the mechanical head, stuffed them back into the bag and hung it on a peg near the doorway.

“I will go and get some firewood. We need to boil water. It’s time for you to drink your brew,” he muttered, disappearing into the thicket.

Girolamo remained silent. The artist’s words touched him, but he kept it to himself. Something reared in his soul, something like curiosity. Who could the Florentine have disappointed with his birth? It could only have been his father, Piero da Vinci. Messer da Vinci — the wealthy notary, like four previous generations of his ancestors — must have expected something different from his firstborn illegitimate son. At least the circumstance of their birth is something shared. Girolamo sighed heavily and closed his eyes.

His eyes watered from the invasive sunlight and vivid greenery, dizzied by his weakened state. His back ached from constantly lying down with his leg suspended in the air. Da Vinci had fashioned a sling for him by attaching a strip of fabric from the ceiling. Now Riario reclined with his leg through the loop. Leonardo assured him that this would reduce the swelling and heal the bone faster.

Girolamo did not object. He had never been given reason to question da Vinci’s knowledge or judgement. Yet this only served to sour his mood and further darken his soul. Da Vinci — the free genius, and him merely an obedient pawn in the Roman tyrant’s grasp. 

\--------------  
1) Anima Christ — Catholic prayer


	6. Forsaken in the Jungle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is not a question of aptitude or fear, da Vinci. It is a question of our mutual trust,” Girolamo twirled the knife in his fingers.

**Forsaken in the Jungle**

Girolamo sat on the sun-warmed earth and, grimacing, critically assessed his warped reflection in the narrow blade of the Medici sword. The excess of facial hair caused him a lot of grief: it was hot, made his face itch, and small flecks got caught in it, leaving him with a constant feeling of something crawling beneath the hairs. He ruffled the beard, which grew out beyond any propriety, and scratched at his neck.

“Savage,” came a jibe from behind him. Riario turned towards the voice. Leonardo stepped out of the jungle with a heap of dry twigs for the hearth and, refraining from further comment, disappeared into the house.

“Look who’s talking,” the Count countered though his teeth, resuming his earlier self-assessment.

“By the way, I could give you a shave,” came Leo’s voice from inside the house, where he was noisily fumbling with crockery. It sounded like he was going to cook chuño, maize or quinoa again.

Although they led a half-starved existence on the remaining reserves pillaged from the houses of the vanished villagers, on the cobs of ripe corn from the abandoned field and the wild fruits and bananas that Leonardo found in the forest, by now Riario could hardly stomach da Vinci’s bland cooking. The llama meat ran out a long time ago, while the Count was still ravaged by fever. Yet spicing the food with dried hot peppers made his stomach spasm, as if he was trying to swallow a sea urchin.

“What with?” he sneered. “This sword?”

He rose, leaning on a makeshift crutch, and headed into the hut dragging his foot. Leonardo was kneeling at the hearth, fanning the kindling fire.

“Maybe you could catch some bird? I saw a few grazing in the grass, looked like pheasants.” Riario struggled to lower himself onto the cot, covered with a faded rug.

“I prefer not to eat anything with eyes,” Leonardo replied. “But you do need to restore your strength. I could catch one.”

Riario eyed the crouching da Vinci, who was blowing carefully on the small pile of tinder and shook his head. He failed to understand the artist’s odd conviction not to eat any meat, however, asking the other man to kill the bird only for his own benefit was humiliating. Having to ask for anything was beneath him.

“You said you could shave me? With what?” Girolamo asked, seeking to change the subject.

“With this.” Leo produced a short knife with a flick of his hand. Its black blade was thick and wide, set in a curved wooden handle.

“What is it?”

Da Vinci threw the knife without force, and it smoothly pierced the ground near Riario’s foot. Girolamo pulled the knife out without missing a beat and gave it a once over.

“Rather sharp and sturdy, but not very handy. Useless in a fight, unless you plan to gut someone,” the Count surmised, checking the flexibility and sharpness of its edge. “What is it made of? I have never seen such metal before,” Girolamo asked, scrutinising the shiny blade.

“It’s not metal, it’s Satan’s claw — volcanic glass in other words,” da Vinci answered, pouring water into the pot and setting it over the fire. “I cut myself badly when I found it.”

He sat down on the cot next to Riario, legs spread wide and palms resting on his knees. Girolamo eyed the artist’s hands.

In a strange and fascinating way, these hands attracted him. There was nothing special about them: they were neither delicate nor rough, like a peasant’s. In fact, the narrow palms and long lithe fingers did not strike him as manly. These hands could belong on a delicate, pampered aristocrat, a Roman patrician or lord, or a merchant who never lifted anything heavier than a coin purse. However, da Vinci’s hands were stained with dirt and grass, and darkly tanned. White spots from alchemical acids, light streaks of scars and fresh bruises discoloured the skin. The jagged edges of his uneven nails were outlined with black stripes of soil. His left index finger was wrapped with a fresh leaf.

“We could help each other shave.”

Girolamo raised his eyes, shaking off the sudden listlessness, and glanced at Leonardo in surprise.

“Help each other? You want me… to shave you?”

Leonardo nodded.

“With this?” Girolamo raised the knife in his hand.

Leonardo nodded again.

“And then you will use this knife to shave me?”

“What’s the problem, Count?” Leonardo huffed a laugh. “Do you think I enjoy this jungle on my face? Or do you doubt your skills? I would do it myself, but unfortunately, without a mirror that is not a good idea.”

Girolamo responded with a sharp smile.

“It is not a question of aptitude or fear, da Vinci. It is a question of our mutual trust,” Girolamo twirled the knife in his fingers. “One careless movement down your throat… and nothing can stop the bleeding. How much do you trust me?” Riario cocked his head slightly, peering into the artist’s eyes with almost friendly curiosity.

“As myself,” Leonardo replied, calmly and firmly. “I do trust you, although anyone who knows you would call me mad.”

A dark shadow ghosted over Riario’s features. He turned away, brow furrowed, and gave the knife another twirl, lost in thought.

“Girolamo,” Leonardo voice was quiet as he lightly touched Riario’s elbow. “I am not your enemy. The Riario I know is not a killer.”

Girolamo raised his head, bewildered. Leonardo’s face was so close that the Count noticed tiny golden dots in his dark hazel eyes. Da Vinci was staring him down. The piercing, emotional gaze dislodged something within the Count’s soul. Hesitation, or something akin to hope.

Leonardo carefully prised the knife from Riario’s hand.

“Come to the light,” he prompted softly, standing up. “It will be more convenient for us there.”

He offered his hand to lean on. Riario eyed the outstretched palm for a few seconds, then shifted his scrutiny to da Vinci’s face.

“Let’s go, come on,” Leo urged.

The Count conceded with a hesitant smile and accepted the artist’s hand. They exited the house in favour of the sunlight. Leo carefully helped him sit down.

“The water is hot. Let me fetch it and we may as well begin.”

Leonardo squatted in front of the Count. He soaked a piece of cloth in hot water and lightly dabbed at Girolamo’s face, softening and moistening the skin.

Da Vinci’s fingers were warm, his motions firm but not rough. He barely grazed Riario’s face with the delicate weightless strokes. Chin, cheeks, temple. He treated Riario as one would a child or a younger sibling. It sent goosebumps all over Girolamo’s body, raising the fine hair on his neck and hands. No one had ever touched him like this. His eyelashes lowered as he embraced the new sensation, submitting obediently to Leonardo’s ministrations and leaned his head back, then tilted it from one side to the other. The knife scratched at his stubble with a rasping sound and the skin burned in its wake, but Riario hardly noticed. He was blissfully luxuriating in Leonardo’s hands and struggled to part his drowsy eyelids when the tips of Leo’s fingers stroked the shaved cheek and he quietly said: “Done.” Girolamo touched his own face. The absence of the stubble brought delightful lightness and freshness, as if a stifling mask had been lifted off his face. The skin, lately unused to the blade, was irritated and sore, but felt relatively smooth.

“Your talents are countless, you are skilled even as a barber,” Girolamo muttered, shaking off the daze. “I fear my abilities are no match for yours.”

“That’s fine, I will endure,” da Vinci smiled. “Let me boil some more water.”

Riario took far longer with their positions reversed. He was uncomfortable, struggling to balance on one foot and hands unaccustomed to such delicate manipulations. To add to the discomfort, he was still under the spell of the artist’s hands, waves of pleasant goosebumps washing over his body. He did his best, and yet he ended up hastily nicking Leo a couple of times. Da Vinci hissed like an angry cat but spared him comment. Unlike Girolamo, however, he kept his eyes on the Count’s face throughout the procedure.

“Will you stop staring? I would rather not cut you again,” Riario murmured, trying to maintain an air of indifference and prevent his voice from revealing the incomprehensible excitement that the artist’s gaze stirred in him.

“You have an extraordinary face, Girolamo. When we return to Italy, I would like to paint your portrait. Will you let me?” Leo grasped the Count’s wrist with urgency. Girolamo gave a small fitful gasp as if burnt, but did not try to extract his hand.

“First,” he said slowly, lifting his eyes from da Vinci’s fingers to his face, “we need to get back.”

“We will,” Leo promised, reluctantly releasing his hand.

“Do you think you are strong enough to continue our journey?” da Vinci let slip one night. “We are in no hurry, yet there is a long road ahead.” He quickly glanced at the Count. “Forgive me, that was not what I meant to say… damn…” Leonardo tried to backtrack and looked guiltily at Riario, wary of his reaction.

They were having supper, unenthusiastically scraping their spoons against the bottom of the pot of boiled potato meal. The night was stifling. Lately, Riario had noticed an increasing irritation and weariness in da Vinci. His temper would slip up more often, even though an apology would follow at once. He hardly ever started a conversation himself and gave curt, unenthusiastic answers when spoken to. Da Vinci was clearly dismayed by this unavoidable delay in their journey. Girolamo could now move around more freely, albeit slowly, leaning on a cane. His leg was still sore but did not cause too much discomfort. He understood and shared in the artist’s barely contained impatience to continue their quest. Their half-starved existence in a hut, lost in the middle of a wild jungle, seemed, if not hell, then a kind of purgatory. He, like da Vinci, yearned for Italy. For noisy dusty Rome and the papal palace, where cool air and solemn silence reigned, and the faces of saints looked down from frescoes and paintings to bring tranquillity.

“We can move out any time. I think I can handle the road,” the Count responded softly.

He noticed how his companion’s eyes glistened happily in the flickering light of the burning hearth.

“Are you sure? Don’t mind me, we can stay here as long as you need. Your leg has to be absolutely healthy.”

Riario’s smile did not reach his eyes. He was far from sure, yet he agreed with da Vinci, it was time to leave their shelter behind.

“Then tomorrow we’ll begin to prepare for the journey,” Leonardo exclaimed enthusiastically.

Leo reluctantly parted with the Incan loincloth. They changed into their old clothes, which immediately stuck to their bodies as a stifling sheath. Their feet, used to freedom, to the earth and grass beneath their soles, felt heavy and soon started to sweat once encased in boots.

“Let’s go down the river. It may be a longer route than heading east,” da Vinci spread a crumpled notebook page with his map, “but this way is safer. The river should lead us, if not to the coast, then to a wider channel. The natives have rudimentary nautical skills. We can take a boat and sail downstream to the ocean. There, on the shore, we can decide what to do next. We are long overdue for a rendezvous with Vespucci. The scoundrel must be halfway to Italy.”

Leonardo folded the paper, hiding it in the shaft of his boot.

“ _Take a boat_?” Riario scoffed, leaning on a light bamboo cane next to Leo. “You meant to say _steal_ , right?”

He raised a questioning eyebrow and smiled. In the Count’s opinion, da Vinci appeared to never take moral decisions seriously enough, behaving as though this was not a choice _he_ was making.

Leo shook his head in dismay. “Don’t pick on my words, Girolamo. I just want to go home.”

“I see. All is fair when survival is at stake, right, artista?” Riario raised the corners of his mouth into a condescending smirk.

Da Vinci wanted to brush it aside or object, to give voice to reason or argument. To persuade himself and the Count that all actions are relevant to the circumstances and the definitions vary accordingly. The notions of conscience and sin are relative, especially when applied to people like them. Riario gazed at Leonardo expectantly through his tangled, grown out fringe.

“Are we arguing or are we walking?” da Vinci countered.

“Walking, obviously,” the Count immediately conceded, though retaining his smirk and obviously secure in his moral high ground. 

Leonardo shouldered his bag. It contained the bronze head, a stash of corn cobs, dry bananas, and other items necessary for any journey. He adjusted the sword in its battered sheath. Riario checked the dead Inca’s bone dagger now attached to his belt. Both felt a bout of melancholy parting with the place they had started to call home, yet it was mixed with the anticipation of the next step of their journey.

They stood in front of the hut, silently saying their farewells, and then headed off together.

Their progress was slow and laborious. At times they had to hack through the crawling stalks, leaves and branches, forcing their way through dense, resilient thicket that did not succumb to neither sword nor dagger. Sometimes they had to climb over the fallen rotting tree trunks, overgrown with grass and moist spots of lichen. Even on the stretches with less obstructive shrubbery, they took their time shuffling through the carpet of dry leaves. Riario was limping heavily, his ashen sweaty face frozen in a mask of pain and endurance.

“Let’s rest,” Leo suggested, stopping again and eyeing his companion anxiously. “We can just lie down. We don’t need to sleep.”

“For the love of God! Stop patronising me. I am able to walk for several more leagues at least,” Girolamo hissed through gritted teeth, limping forwards to leave the artist behind. “I am not tired.”

“I’m tired.” Leo caught up with Riario guiltily. After all, it was his unforgivable impatience that foolishly pushed Girolamo to leave the hut prematurely. “Please,” he said quietly to the stubborn emissary, who refused to give up. The road was too exhausting for the man. Da Vinci was aware that without regular rest, Girolamo would not last even two days.

Riario stopped, struggling to catch his breath, forcefully grasping the cane.

“All right,” he breathed and immediately lowered himself to the ground, silently scowling. Leo removed the bag from his shoulder, taking out a clay vessel wrapped with grass which contained water and offered it to Girolamo. The Count accepted, took a couple of short swigs of warm musty liquid, and passed it back. Leo also took a sip, before corking the flask and returning it to the bag. He then straightened the bag and patted it, encouraging the Count to lie down. Girolamo did not need to be asked twice, stretching out next to da Vinci and letting his eyelids drop. Fatigue pulsed painfully throughout his whole body. He wasn’t even hungry. The forest was stiflingly hot and humid. They simply lay side by side and tried not to fall asleep.

Suddenly, a loud guttural roar sounded from the canopy, forcing their eyes open and their hands to reach for their weapons as they jolted to their feet. In a tree close above them sat a vaguely humanoid creature covered in long dark fur. It made soul churning sounds, opening its mouth and stretching out its disgusting lips. A long tail wrapped around the branch on which the ugly creature sat. It paid no attention to the humans beneath, fully immersed in the eerie sound of its own voice.

“Hell spawn,” Riario muttered and crossed himself.

“I don’t think so,” da Vinci disagreed softly, eyeing the unknown animal. “It’s not dangerous. It isn’t trying to attack us.”

“It isn’t trying to attack because the power of God is with us,” the Count argued, wrapping his fingers around the dagger’s hilt and glancing with disgust at the roaring creature on the tree. 

“Have you never thought that this creature is yet another of God’s wonders. Although I do doubt that God exists. You know—” Leonardo thoughtfully scratched at his cheek, already sprouting stubble once more. “—I have seen similar animals and noticed that they do not sleep on the ground. Only on trees. You know why?”

Riario did not answer.

“It’s safer in the trees, and we should follow their example.” With these words, he sharply drove the sword into the ground next to himself. The blade pierced a small, brightly coloured snake. Yellow-black-red rings convulsed and coiled, then relaxed lifelessly. The maestro and the Count silently exchanged glances. Leonardo pulled the sword out and kicked the snake away from himself, which flew a few paces limp like a rope. He picked up the bag and they headed along the path again. 

“Da Vinci… da Vinci, wake up… Leo!”

A desperate, insistent whisper drew him from his slumber.

“Oh, now I am just Leo,” he mumbled hoarsely, struggling to open his eyes. Riario, however, ignored the joke. His eyes were trained somewhere ahead and below them. Leonardo wanted to move, but Riario raised his hand in silent warning. Da Vinci followed the Count’s gaze and froze.

They were spending the night in the crown of a huge tree, comfortably settled in the juncture of several large branches. In order not to fall in their sleep, they secured themselves with rope. Below was a small river, almost a shallow stream, which could be waded across if necessary. Low sharp-leaved shrubbery covered its banks on both sides. Openings in the growth allowed access to water. At one such clearing on the opposite bank, a familiar yellow-black cat crouched. Petrified, da Vinci and Riario observed the animal, not daring to make a sound. The beast flattened itself to the ground, lapping at the water idly. Its wide tongue stroked the surface, shallow circles spreading out around the lowered head. Suddenly, the animal tensed as if sensing something, and sharply reared its head. The muscles coiled, the spots on the pelt moving smoothly. A few clear drops fell from its chin. Yellow eyes looked directly at them.

“Jaguar,” Leonardo breathed, almost silent in cautious awe. His heart was pounding shallowly, as it had the first time he saw it. The jaguar moved its whiskered muzzle, rose to its feet with a short guttural roar, then turned around and disappeared into the thicket.

“I almost soiled my pants, when I saw it,” Riario broke the silence, swallowing loudly, and gathering his wits.

Leo rubbed his face with both hands and let out a sigh of relief. No matter how magnificent and beautiful the wild beast appeared to him, it was extremely deadly. And the further they were from it, the better.

“Me too,” the artist admitted. “When I met it for the first time. But somehow it worked out, otherwise I would not be talking to you now.”

They came down from the tree and washed themselves in the river. Then they ate some dry bananas and peanuts for breakfast and headed out in silence.

This silence became routine. Fatigue ate into their flesh and bone, furrowed deep. Dull and empty, it had accumulated over many days. It drained their souls, extinguishing all feelings except profound indifference. Days and nights merged endlessly into a grey monotonous haze.

Riario followed da Vinci, rarely surfacing out of this mindless trance, moving his legs mechanically, eyes trained on the artist’s back. His whole being shrank and focussed on his injured and overworked leg. It ached with dull, pulling pain, as if his tendons were stretched out. At night it pulsed and burned with dry fire. Nightly, Da Vinci would wrap it with some leaves, which gave a little relief. Then they would have their evening meal and smoke a pipe with intoxicating dry leaves of coca. This helped as well, alleviating some of the heaviness and tension. Then fatigue would prevail to pull them into deep slumber.

At times, walking behind the artist, it appeared to the Count that the man was fading into darkness. Girolamo would catch himself walking with his eyes closed, faltering in his step, before snapping to attention. He refused to ask for help, and da Vinci allowed it without comment. He simply turned around, took a few steps back, and offered his shoulder. Riario silently accepted the help. They walked together, almost in an embrace but devoid of any intimacy, like two pieces of driftwood caught with each other in a whirlpool. 

Girolamo stopped praying. Sacred words lost their meaning, no longer giving him a sense of contentment or bliss, turned only into empty sounds. He wished for one thing — for the hostile endless jungle to end, and the cacophony of wild noises to quiet in his ears.

When once again he was lost in this half-unconscious haze with da Vinci aiding him, supporting most of his weight, the thicket abruptly ended.

The artist exclaimed. Girolamo raised his heavy head. Da Vinci stretched out his hand, pointing at something and speaking animatedly, but Girolamo’s ears felt as if they were clogged. He turned his head slowly and was almost blinded.

Far away, on the backdrop of brilliant blue skies, white peaks of tall mountains glittered, outlined with sunrays. In front of them, a wide river flowed. 


	7. The River 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your stoicism is remarkable, Count!” Leonardo called loudly, taking a break from his swim. “You are the man of steel. But have you never wanted to try something different? Do you even know what free will is?”

The space suddenly expanded around them, an overwhelming mass of clean fresh air greeting them, wind hitting their faces with the scent of water and hot stone. They collapsed, hungrily drinking in the crisp, chilly air.

How long they lay like this, Girolamo did not know. He must have dozed off or fallen unconscious, entirely losing track of time. When the initial stupor subsided, he became aware of how different the world sounded around him, filled with the steady splash of water and the distant piercing cries of birds circling in the high blue sky. He turned his head. Da Vinci was splayed next to him, eyes closed, breathing evenly, apparently asleep. His eyelashes cast long shadows over sharp cheekbones, streaked with sweat and dust. The breeze ruffled his hair, blowing loose strands into his face, his tattered shirt billowing in the wind. From the outside, they must have looked like a pair of pitiful vagrants in this God forsaken place.

The high sun burned mercilessly, scorching the stones they lay on. They needed to find some shade.

Riario felt dizzy, grown unaccustomed to the excess of fresh air and the stretching infinity of the horizon. He glanced around. A rocky valley with small patches of low, stunted shrubbery sprawled before them as far as the eye could see. The river was blinding, glittering with fractured reflections. Through the transparent azure haze rose the distant, crumpled peaks of glaciers.

Girolamo looked back to the dark wall of the jungle behind them and thanked the Lord for delivering them both out of the hellish forest alive.

“Da Vinci,” he called softly. Leonardo sucked in a laboured breath, opened his eyes, and immediately squinted, using the palm of his hand as a visor against the fierce sun.

“The Lord has shown us His mercy after all,” Girolamo gave him a pained smile.

Leonardo propped himself up on one elbow, looked around and fell back again. Black stripes of birds drifted in the endless sky. Wind carried freshness from the river. Although completely drained of strength, Leo decided that if he did not dive into the river immediately, he would never peal himself off this scorching brazier. He sat up again and unhurriedly began to extricate himself from his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Going for a swim,” Leo said wearily. “The water will restore me. Right now, I feel like a rotten plum.”

Leonardo struggled out of his boots, flinging them aside with a wince. He rose to his feet, unhooking the sword and scabbard before unclasping his belt. Then he untied the lacing of his pants and kicked them away from his legs. Finally naked, he allowed himself a leisurely stretch, popping his joints with satisfaction.

After many weeks of near starvation, da Vinci seemed to have dried out, his muscles lengthened into knotted ropes twisting under tanned skin. His taut stomach was almost concave, skin stretched over the ribs and sharp hipbones. Sinewy calves, like a racing horse, smoothly merged into narrow ankles with protruding tendons. Only the neat, firm roundness of his white buttocks were in sharp contrast to the rest of his tanned body.

Riario averted his gaze from the artist’s form.

“Aren’t you going to cool down and wash the dirt off yourself?” Leo glanced back at the Count. The man remained silent, demonstrating an emphatic indifference. Da Vinci snorted, acknowledging the churchman’s reluctance to strip, and, treading carefully over the stones, stepped into the soothing water.

It almost immediately reached up to his knees, welcoming him with its chilly embrace, cooling and caressing the skin. Leo scooped up a few clear handfuls and drank with delight. Throwing another glance back at Girolamo’s lone figure, he huffed and dived into a shallow wave. The water engulfed him, sending a rush of goosebumps along his heated body, his breath catching in his throat. He dipped beneath the surface, then emerged, laughing with childlike abandon.

Riario persevered on the hot stones under the scorching sun. He stretched out his feet, tapping the bamboo cane on the worn sides of his boots.

“Your stoicism is remarkable, Count!” Leonardo called loudly, taking a break from his swim. “You are the man of steel. But have you never wanted to try something different? Do you even know what free will is?” Leo shouted cheerfully, continuing to splash around in the water. He dived beneath the surface again, tempting the Count’s gaze with the white hemispheres of his buttocks.

“You behave like a dockside whore,” Riario responded, averting his gaze from the frolicking da Vinci.

“No, I behave like a man who enjoys swimming naked in cool, clear water. Who takes pleasure in finally washing off all that dust and dirt. I am enjoying myself, Riario… unlike you, who is rotting in the sun, because someone else’s dogma prevents you from doing as you please.”

Leo let out a loud mocking hoot. He fell backwards, a fountain of glittering droplets rising into the air. Then floated on the surface, arms and legs outstretched, and closed his eyes, luxuriating in the sleepy calm of the river, the gentle chill and abating fatigue.

“Enlighten me, Girolamo.” Without opening his eyes, he raised his voice again. “Your church speaks of universal love, forgiveness and mercy. But the Lord does not love his own children, for having created them in His image, He forbids pleasure. Who said that a naked body is sinful? Coition is a sin. Conception is a sin. It is sinful to paint, to study nature, to learn its secrets. Where is the use in creating a world which no one is allowed to touch? Why does the Church demand blind worship as the only way to achieve the kingdom of God?”

“Your mind is infected with heresy, Artista.” Riario’s soft voice sounded much closer than he expected. Leonardo opened his eyes, turning his head. Girolamo was stepping into the river, completely naked. The unexpected spectacle toppled Leo’s balance and he slipped under the water momentarily getting a mouthful. Then surfaced, choking and coughing.

“Who knows, maybe I’m wrong and God does exist,” he murmured, stunned gaze captivated by the striding Count. “And if He made this, I don’t mind Him existing.”

Girolamo seemed unfazed, taking a few more unhurried steps to slowly sink into the water. Making wide strokes, he swam away from Leo.

The infinite void of the firmament overhead arrested the gaze, its intricate design instilled awe on the verge of ecstasy. It was the ineffable masterpiece of creation, emblazoned with swirls of silvery stardust, the mysterious pinkish-purple liquidated mercury globules, the icy flickering of countless pinpricks of stars. Solemn splendour spreading across the radiant dome.

 _Man, you are powerless. You are mortal. You are dust, a speck_ _оn the grand canvas of the universe, and the mysteries of the celestial artist are unattainable to you. His design is beyond you. You may aspire to doubt, yet you cannot avert your eyes from what you see_. It was the caustic voice in his head, returned to torment him. _You arrive into this world and depart leaving no trace, like hundreds of thousands similar flecks before you. Dust to dust. Yet the celestial dome shall stand. It is eternal._

Da Vinci blinked and shook his head to chase away the unwelcome guest. “Not true!” he silently refuted the voice. “Man has uncovered countless mysteries, overcome so many obstacles. Man learned to navigate the ocean, explored faraway lands, conquered the fire. And this is far from the limit. With every individual lifetime, man proves his ingenuity.”

 _Well, yes,_ his inner antagonist conceded sarcastically. _And yet, he also perpetrates heinous crimes. Kills, maims and destroys what was not his creation to begin with… Man is foolish and insignificant. He does only what he is allowed to do. He learns only what he is allowed to know. Scraps. Glimpses of the Universal Consciousness. For man is feeble and is but a part of the universe. A grain of sand cannot overturn the celestial dome or comprehend the source of all being._

Leonardo unconsciously covered his face, trying to shield himself. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! Leave me alone! You do not understand, and I will not even try to explain it to you!”

The maestro clenched his fists and threw his head back to face the luminous sky.

Cold spectral bluish light streamed from above. It bathed the stones and bare coastal rock in soft silver.

A small, unassuming stone shard, like the tooth of a mythical monster, protruded out of a rocky clearing next to the jungle. Inside they found a convenient shelter for the night. Its shallow, rounded recess, gnawed out by winds and licked smooth with time, transformed it into a cosy niche. The stones, heated by the sun during the day, now slowly gave off their warmth, wrapping their bodies in an invisible cocoon, protecting against the chilly river breeze.

During the day, da Vinci could hardly force himself to get out of the water. It seemed to rinse away all the sweat, dirt, fatigue and anxiety that amassed in his soul and body, dragging him down like a lead weight. Afterwards, with no more energy to spare, he splayed himself on the hot rocks and lay there seeping in the rejuvenating warmth, observing Riario through lowered eyelashes. The man took his time swimming and diving, spraying droplets with each stoke. Once satisfied, he limped out of the water and lowered himself on the scorching stones of the riverbank nearby. Da Vinci surreptitiously scrutinised the Count’s body, despite knowing it in intimate detail. Beads of water glistened on his tanned skin, raised with goosebumps. When he shifted, a few droplets ran down his broad back. He was shivering, and Leo had to resist the urge to move closer and embrace Riario, if only to share warmth, to shelter him. If only it was possible.

If only…

“I’m glad we can stay here for a while. There must be fish in the river, bananas in the forest, and we will find a shelter,” Leonardo muttered sleepily. Girolamo turned to look at him, peering through the long wet fringe that hid his eyes. Leo again had to fight an impulse to reach out and push the hair away or brush off a layer of sand cacking the sunken cheek. “Your leg has to heal completely. I’m not… I’m willing to wait… As long as it takes.”

The Count’s lips twitched, a faint smile flickering over his face. He silently appraised the artist and closed his eyes.

There was indeed fish in the river. Da Vinci crafted traps, and they set them in the shallows. Their joined effort yielded a dozen silvery fat fishes.

It was an unapologetic feast. The fish were gutted and placed on embers, wrapped in wide leaves. They barely managed to wait for it to bake through before stuffing it in their mouths, finally grasping the hot white flesh with frantic fingers. They hardly noticed the bones and flecks of soot and sand as they devoured greedily, blowing and hissing as it burned their skin. Fully focussed, they chewed in silence, deftly picking needle-like curved bones with their teeth, sucking on the spines and fins, crunching the delicate heads.

The stomachs were full, but their eyes insatiable. They reached for the next portion and then the next until they had eaten the entire catch clean, leaving only a few meagre piles of bones on the charred leaves.

It felt like a primitive, wild orgy, and yet there was nothing unnatural about it.

He found himself in a cyclopean landscape. A dead and empty expanse, the wind whistling between sharp rocks on a single unsettling note. No shrub or blade of grass, only sand and stone. The terracotta cliffs were layered with black like slices of cake cut by a giant knife. They pierced the heavy, leaden sky. Anxiety sprouted beneath his ribs and rose to constrict his throat. Howling, gnawing… feral. “Why did everyone abandon me?” The same desperate questions occupied his mind. “Why am I alone?”

He dashed between the fragments of stone in frenzied yet futile attempts to find anyone. Anyone alive. He was haunted by a terrifying feeling of invisible eyes following his every move. He pivoted abruptly, searching the dead stones with frantic gaze. But there was no one there. And yet there was someone, standing right behind him and touching him between the shoulder blades. Disembodied whispers and laughter moved the hair on the back of his head. His heart froze with icy fear, lungs constricted. Someone’s invisible clawed hands caught on his clothes.

 _No! Let go of me!_ He fought them off, and ran, ran, ran through endless narrow corridors. As far as possible, until he heard a sound that stopped him in his tracks. Eerie and quiet, like a child crying or a dog whining. He blindly followed the twists and turns of the corridor, looking for its source. He found it — a small sniffling boy sat cowering in the dark corner. The child hid his face in crossed arms, folded over his knees, and was crying softly. He hastened towards the boy, and dropped to his knees, shaking his thin shoulder. The small body was limp, like an old ragdoll. — _Why are you here? Why are you alone? Where are your parents?_ — _I am bad. I am very bad. Everyone left me._ The child lifted his face and Girolamo jolted away from him — _no!_ — he recognised himself, staring back with empty eye sockets, bloody and gaping. 

Girolamo howled with horror that choked his soul. He staggered to his feet and ran, putting as much distance as possible between himself and this terrifying place. The pain in his chest stunted his breath, wheezing like a wounded animal. He could not bear another moment of this eviscerating pain — his eyes flew open.

Leo was sitting with his legs crossed, a handful of shelled peanuts piled in front of him. He ate very slowly, placing one nut at a time into his mouth and chewing thoroughly. His eyes, however, were fixed on the face of the awakened Count.

“What?” Riario blinked nervously, peering around disoriented. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Leonardo popped another oval pink-skinned kernel between his lips.

“Do you know that you sleep badly? You thrash and groan, calling someone. Just now you were talking in your sleep… or rather screaming.”

“What?” Riario asked again, sitting up and rubbing his palms across his face, still half-asleep. “I was screaming?” His mouth was parched, elevated heartbeat echoing through his chest as if he was still running.

Da Vinci gave a silent nod and rubbed at the stubble on his cheek. His eyes, however, continued their scrutiny of the sweaty dishevelled Girolamo.

Another vivid recollection of the recent dream caused the Count to shudder.

“What was I… screaming?” He forced the words out of himself.

“Different things,” Leonardo shrugged. “Something like “ _no, let go_ ”. And other things that I couldn’t make out. Tell me?” He offered out a peanut.

“No,” Riario shifted away. It remained unclear which offer he was declining.

“I won’t insist. Keep it to yourself if you wish, but—” Leo nervously rubbed at his growing stubble “— it is happening almost every night. Well, not quite every… Girolamo,” he called softly.

Riario sat silently, his forehead pressed into his knees like the terrifying boy in his dream, his fingers digging into his ankles.

Leo brushed the peanut shells off the Incan mat that served them as a mattress and moved closer.

“Girolamo, tell me. You will feel better.” Leonardo placed a hand on his shoulder, and Riario finally faced him. Silhouetted by silver moonlight, the artist’s face resembled an eyeless mask. Girolamo took a shallow, reluctant breath, anticipating that da Vinci would misinterpret or not understand him at all.

“I would not know where to begin… how to explain.”

Leo shifted closed and gave his shoulder a cautious squeeze.

“Start with the easiest part.”

“I found myself in a bizarre place — lifeless and cold, like purgatory. I was searching for something. I wandered among rocks, and it felt horrible, desolate, made me want to howl.”

He watched a muscle twitch in the artist’s face.

“There I… I saw,” the Count rasped, slowing down, “— in that terrifying place… I saw myself.”

“Yourself?” da Vinci echoed. “What were you doing there?”

“It was me, only younger… I was abandoned as a child. I lived in a monastery long before my father found me.” Girolamo took an awkward wet breath. Leo listened, keeping his eyes on the moon-bleached face before him.

“There… the other me had his eyes gouged out,” Riario pushed the words out and swallowed noisily. His sharp Adam’s apple rolled up and down his throat.

“It was just a dream. A nightmare,” Leonardo was compelled to whisper. “You went through a lot, Girolamo. A lot of pain. You are struggling with your fears. Your mind is playing a cruel trick on you, showing you these bad dreams. Rest. Don’t think about it. Come.” He suddenly pulled the Count into an embrace and rubbed his shoulder with feeling, as if trying to share warmth or to brush off the clinging vestiges of fear.

Da Vinci’s warm hand pressed heavily into his neck, but Girolamo hesitated to move it. The artist smelled of bitter musk, river water and clean sweat. Riario licked his dry lips and felt the hand on his neck twitch, fingers digging into skin. Their eyes met, catching the reflected light of the stars. Girolamo, for some unknown reason, grasped Leo’s head awkwardly with both hands and pressed their lips together.

It was fast and sudden. A second ago the Count was paralysed with fear, and now his lips were crushed under the other man’s mouth. Hard, moist, and demanding. Stubble scratched against his skin, muffled hot breath had a pungent aftertaste. Da Vinci’s hand reached to stroke the hair at the back of his head, and then grasped tightly. The kiss was brief, but there was something more in it, reconciling and forgiving. It made the fading pain recede entirely.

Riario suddenly recoiled, as if his lips were seared with fire. 

“What was that?” da Vinci rasped, not trying to calm his racing heart.

“I don’t know. Don’t ask,” Riario answered abruptly, brisk and alarmed.

Leo wanted to reach out for him, but the Count withdrew further. Then he turned away, lay down, hunched into himself and staring blindly forward. What was he, a hysterical maiden, a sinner or a fool?

Da Vinci lowered himself next to the Count, settling behind him. He refrained from touching the man with his hands, only pressing his forehead between the other’s shoulder blades. Riario’s sudden kiss stirred a whole storm of conflicting feelings in his soul: confusion, hope, delight and fear. Fear that what happened was simply Girolamo succumbing to the confusion of his nightmare riddled mind.


End file.
